The Temple of Poseidon was last, and he didn’t see Namastis, which made sense as the young priest had drilled all day. But the priest who copied the list was thorough and interested, able to memorize without effort, and Satyrus found himself standing on the steps watching the crowds. There was no sign of Diokles – and then he saw the man, well down the street, crossing from the Temple of Athena to the Temple of Demeter.
The shrine of Herakles beckoned to him from across the avenue. He had the time.
Satyrus crossed the street as quickly as possible and went up the steps, ignoring some acquaintance who called his name. He gave his list to an acolyte to be copied and then stepped into the precinct of the temple, searched his bag for a silver coin and found one, and made a hasty but exact sacrifice under the gilt statue of the master pankrationist, left arm stretched forward, right arm back and holding a sword, the lion skin of shining gold covering his back. He felt nothing untoward, except that the eyes of the statue seemed to be upon him, and he dedicated his sacrifice to the dead boy, Cyrus – Theo would have his own sacrifices. Satyrus thought of the young man’s eagerness to learn to sacrifice – it seemed as if that was so long ago, and he found that tears were running down his face.
Then he was back out of the precinct, and he went down the steps in a sombre mood.
‘Master Satyrus!’ called a voice, close at hand.
Satyrus felt that something was wrong. He felt as if the god had put a hand on his shoulder and turned him – indeed, he spun on the steps and stumbled when his right foot slipped off the marble step, and his side absorbed an impact – his ribs burned with fire. Only as the knife was withdrawn did he understand that he had been attacked.
‘Hades!’ a familiar voice cursed, and Satyrus got his hand on the attacker’s elbow. They struggled for the knife, and they exchanged blows – Satyrus took a blinding blow from the top of his opponent’s head and returned one with his fingers to his opponent’s eyes, and then the man broke his hold in exchange for the loss of the knife and bolted down the steps.
Satyrus was bleeding from his side. He put a hand to it, and it came away covered with blood, and he felt queasy.
Diokles appeared at his side. ‘I see him!’ he said.
Satyrus managed to get to his feet. ‘Follow him!’ he said. ‘See where he goes!’
Diokles hesitated. ‘But-’ he said.
‘I’ll be safe in the temple,’ Satyrus said. Suiting the action to the word, he dragged himself up the steps, leaving a trail of blood.
Diokles hesitated another moment and then raced away.
Satyrus was helped by many hands. In the end they carried him into the precinct and laid him on a bench. His side hurt, but the doctor who appeared in moments shook his head.
‘You’re a lucky lad,’ he said. ‘Skidded off your ribs. It’ll hurt for some days, but the bruise’ll be worse than the cut.’ He wrapped Satyrus in the temple’s linen, and Hama came with four files of cavalry to escort him home.
Hama was silent all the way home. Satyrus assumed that somehow he was going to be blamed, but he had drawn the wrong conclusion.
‘You’re hurt!’ Sappho said, when he came into the courtyard.
Diokles had managed to follow the would-be killer into the tannery district before he lost the man, and he stood in the middle of a dozen of Diodorus’s cavalrymen, describing the district while Eumenes of Olbia wrote his directions on a tablet.
‘I recognized his voice,’ Satyrus said. ‘Remember Sophokles?’
Philokles smiled ruefully. ‘Who could forget?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Really? Here?’
‘Yes,’ Satyrus said.
‘Don’t tell me!’ Sappho put a hand to her throat. ‘Where’s Melitta?’ She sent for Dorcus.
‘Speaking of armour,’ Diodorus said. He shrugged. ‘This was supposed to be a dramatic moment, but I think my thunder has been stolen somewhat.’
Dorcus returned. ‘In the bath, my lady,’ she said, grim-faced.
Sappho took a deep breath and let it out. Then another.
Diodorus embraced his wife. ‘I think we have to let Satyrus go his own way,’ he said.
Sappho raised her head. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘How badly hurt are you, my dear? I assume that if you were dying, someone would have told me.’
Satyrus managed a smile. ‘It shocked me when it happened, but I assure you I’ve had worse in the palaestra.’
Eumenes stepped forward and saluted. ‘Strategos? With fifty men, I think I could find him.’
‘Hold that thought,’ Diodorus said. ‘Stay by me. I need to consult with Leon and with Philokles before I send a troop of cavalry into the streets, even for Stratokles.’
Satyrus hadn’t seen Eumenes in weeks, and he shook hands with the youngest of his father’s friends. ‘The gods keep you well,’ he said.
Eumenes grinned. ‘The gods need some help with you!’ he answered.
Diodorus stepped in. ‘I have a small surprise for you, Satyrus.’ He shrugged. ‘I hope that you like it.’ He led them all in from the courtyard.
In the main room there was an armour stand, and atop it was the helmet of silver that Demetrios had given Satyrus three years before. Now, under it, was a full-sized cuirass of tawed leather and alternating rows of silver and gilt-bronze scales – every scale a small disk, so that the whole looked like the scales on a fish. There was a gilt and silver vambrace for the sword arm and a pair of rich greaves.
‘I wish that Melitta had as good,’ Satyrus said. ‘Oh, that’s beautiful, Uncle. Who made it? Hephaistos?’
‘Much like,’ Diodorus agreed, pleased that his gift was so well received.
Philokles came in, still in armour, and glanced at the display. ‘Goodness, Achilles is going to fight right next to me. Young man, see that you don’t blind me.’ He turned to Diodorus and Eumenes. ‘So?’
‘Leon’s man followed the assassin,’ Diodorus said.
‘I think I can find him,’ Eumenes said. ‘I need fifty men.’
Philokles shook his head. ‘This whole city is right on the edge of a violent explosion,’ he said. ‘The news isn’t public, but two of our senior officers have fled to Demetrios – this morning. And just now, Ptolemy announced that he will march. We’ll set off tomorrow – the Phalanx of Aegypt at the rear.’ He smiled grimly. ‘If we send ten files of cavalry into the market, the war will start right here.’
Diodorus nodded. ‘I agree. What do we do?’
Philokles looked at Satyrus. ‘We ask our Aegyptian friends to find them for us. The tannery district is almost entirely native. The native populace is so disaffected with the Macedonians tonight that they may rise against Ptolemy himself – foolish as that would be, that’s where they are. Satyrus? Any ideas?’
Satyrus was looking longingly at his new armour. ‘Namastis – the priest of Poseidon. He’ll help. I wish I knew where to find him, but the temple is the place to start.’
Accompanied by Diokles and a dozen cavalry troopers whose military gear was inadequately disguised by borrowed civilian cloaks, Satyrus went to the Temple of Poseidon.
Namastis greeted him from the top of the steps, as if they’d made an appointment. ‘I heard what happened!’ the Aegyptian said.
‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll help with,’ Satyrus said. ‘Listen – my uncles say our city is on the edge of civil war – Aegyptians against Macedonians.’
Namastis’s face closed. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, lord.’
‘Satyrus! Call me Satyrus, by the gods! By Poseidon Earth-shaker, priest, this is about our city! Your city and my city! Men are manipulating the thetes. Alexandria cannot stand without Lord Ptolemy. He is not the enemy. The enemy is Antigonus One-Eye and his army – if they come here, they will sack the city no matter what promises he makes.’
Namastis nodded. ‘I know that. But desperate men make poor choices.’
Satyrus shook his head. ‘These men who attacked me-’
‘Who are they? And why? No man of Aegypt would do it. I have let it be known – that is to say, it is known that you are a friend.’ Namastis looked deeply disturbed by his slip.
Satyrus ignored it. ‘They serve One-Eye. Understand?’
The priest shook his head. ‘No, I do not understand. Explain it to me.’
